


A Well-Tempered Clavier

by GretaOto



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Homophobic Language, Language, M/M, Musical References, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 15:08:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3330458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GretaOto/pseuds/GretaOto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their love story is a fugue. No matter who tells it, or when, or how, the melody remains the same: neither of them expected it, neither of them wanted it, but both would have it no other way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Well-Tempered Clavier

Their love story is a fugue. No matter who tells it, or when, or how, the melody remains unchanged: one subject imitated in many voices and keys, sometimes major, sometimes minor, often inverted or in retrograde, transposed and transfigured, but always, always the same. No matter who tells it, or when, or how, the melody is the same: neither of them expected it, neither of them wanted it, but both would have it no other way.

\---

Three armed roughs have managed to surprise Arthur during a day off. _An off day_ , Arthur thinks to himself, frustrated at being caught without a single weapon at hand, even if we was relaxing at home when they burst through the aging front door. Especially at home. He should know better, in their line of business.

They don’t want to kill him, not immediately, but they are looking for information. Specifically, the locations of the entire team from three jobs back. Apparently their middle-aged businessman mark had dirtier connections than they thought. 

Arthur is kneeling on the linoleum, wishing he was just two feet over to the right on the carpet, barefoot and in just a pair of drawstring pants, hair wet from the shower. His hands are tied sloppily with a short extension cord snagged from his living room lamp. What feels like a silencer is nestled into the base of his skull. The thugs are like so many he has met in his line of work – interchangeable, slightly slow, rather dull but surprisingly fearless because of that, and way too easy with a trigger for Arthur to try anything sudden.

“Why won’t you tell us where Eames is? He your boyfriend or something, fairy?,” one of them growls. It doesn’t matter which one.

“Does Mr. Eames seem like the kind of person I would fall in love with?” Arthur’s face is a flawless mask of composure, perfectly aloof with a soupçon of disdain.

_[I never expected to love someone like him.]_

“He seems exactly your type, you fucking poof. A bit of rough, someone to take you down a goddamn peg like you deserve.”

“Mr. Eames is flagrantly unprofessional in the workplace, his sense of style so eye-searing he must be colorblind or just plain blind, and he’s a thief and a liar. You call that ‘my type’?” Arthur’s deft fingers work apart the knots. Sloppy, unprepared, these men don’t stand a chance.

_[I hated him at first.]_

“Then why? do you work with him? all the? fucking? time?” Each phrase is punctuated by a rough thrust to Arthur’s shoulder with a second Beretta.  
“Because he’s the best,” is Arthur’s only answer. 

_[I never want him to change.]_

The fluidity of his next movements belie the lethal power contained in his slim form as he rises, spins, disarms Thug 1 and Thug 2 simultaneously, and shoots Thug 3 in the face followed immediately by the other two. As he watches the pools of spreading blood run together, seeping under the kitchen table and soaking into the drab beige carpet in the doorway, Arthur is glad that he never really liked this house anyway. A quiet cul-de-sac in a nondescript suburb of Pennsylvania wasn’t exactly his style, and apparently it wasn’t as good of a blind as he thought. The silencers will have bought him enough time to casually make his way to the airport, no suspicions aroused until long after he is gone.

London sounds pretty nice this time of year, he thinks.

\---

Eames is sprawled on a couch in Yusuf’s back den, waiting for the effects of the latest Somnacin experiment to wear off. It’s supposed to remove inhibitions while under – a truth serum, of sorts – but the effects seem even stronger topside. Eames is glad that he did a trial run with Yusuf prior to the whole group; their history is long enough and sordid enough that there is nothing of import which the chemist doesn’t already know. But there are some things that Ariadne just never needs to hear. Or that new extractor whatshisname, since Cobb had begged off to stay home for Phillipa’s ballet recital. And definitely not Arthur.

“… I didn’t actually fuck those blond twins after the job in Vegas. Even though they were totally my type. Big tits, fantastic arses, and definitely not well dressed, stuck up, know-it-alls. Just told Arthur I did to make him jealous...”

_[I never wanted an Arthur until I met one.]_

“… god, that man. Thought he was a bleeding robot at first. Bleeding robot who looked damn fine in a fancy suit, but goddamn that man is cold. Stole$ 280,000 from me once, gave it to the fuckin’ FBI or some shit like that…”

_[I didn’t know whether to fuck him or fuck him over.]_

“… the man is loyal though, I’ll give you that. A fuckin’ excellent shot. And he’s creative, but don’t ever tell him I said that. No one else I’d rather have at my back…”

_[But now he’s the only one I want.]_

“Damn, Yusuf, what did you put in this shit? I’m bloody wasted. It’s like tequila night in uni all over again. At least my pants are still on. Damn…”

Yusuf just smiles and tosses a blanket over Eames’ shirtless torso. He’s heard versions of that story before many times, but each time, the man's tone gets fonder, his insults less biting. It’s sweet, touching, unexpected.

\---

It is Christmas at the Cobbs’. The first Christmas since his return, and Dom wants Phillipa and James to have the best possible Christmas he can give them, to make up for losing their mother and spending three years on the run. 

Too many old friends had been lost in the aftermath of Mal’s jump; the only friends left were those who had come through the hell that was Inception and back. So Dom pleads and smiles and shamelessly guilt trips, until he has a house filled with Arthur and Eames, Ariadne, Yusuf, and (of course) Miles and Marie. Saito had made his excuses, but the pile of presents under the tree is suspiciously well-endowed.

Arthur walks out of the kitchen, balancing a tray of mulled wine in one hand for the adults and carrying two mugs of spiced eggnog for the children in the other hand. Eames passes him going the other way, his load an empty plate of cheese and crackers to be refilled. His eyes flicker up to the small sprig of greenery suspended in the center of the doorway. Arthur rolls his eyes, Eames smirks knowingly, and the two exchange a brief kiss, warm and familiar, movements in flawless synchronicity yet feet never straying from their intended paths. It seems both rehearsed and spontaneous, a reflex borne of many similar interactions.

“How did you two meet?” asks Marie, curious. The two men are so unlike, and yet so perfectly fitted, incomprehensible to anyone but themselves.

Arthur’s gaze drifts back, to where a riot of red and green paisley is reemerging from Dom’s small kitchen.

“We were in Rio,” he begins.

“Arthur was strolling down the beach in a full three piece suit,” Eames chimes in. “Linen, mind you, but still a full suit, on the beach, in Rio, in the middle of summer. It was appalling.” 

“’Appalling’ describes the lime green man-thong you were wearing,” Arthur shoots back, no heat or venom in his tone.

If there is a mental image Dom never needed, it is this one. Ariadne just looks thoughtful.

_[I wasn’t looking for you.]_

“We realized the next day, much to our mutual dismay and horror, that we were to be working together,” Eames continues.

“I think our reciprocal disdain was about the only thing we had in common at that point,” Arthur points out, wryly. “Certainly not sense of fashion, caffeine preferences, work habits, or anything else important.”

“I still can’t believe that you drink your coffee with so much sugar. It’s revolting, darling. It’s not coffee. Not that coffee is a respectable man’s drink, anyway. Not like a proper cup of tea.”

“Since when do you care about being respectable? And you still have zero predictability or consistency in your work. It’s infuriating.”

_[I didn’t understand you.]_

Several fond smiles are exchanged. Only some of them are between Arthur and Eames.

Eames’ expressive face grows somber, remembering.

“But it was Arthur’s stultifying thoroughness and incredibly pedantic insistence on triple-checking everything which saved our lives. The mark was militarized, but only on the second level. Incredibly sneaky, that. Designed to protect only the deepest and most precious secrets. Lulled us all into a false sense of security. Well, all except Arthur, of course.”

“I may have noticed it first, but you were the one who got us out of there, if you recall. Creative, that, turning a dressage horse into a fu- fricking tank mid-gallop, in order to take out a literal army of projections. A bit overkill, but it was quite effective.”

Dom narrows his eyes at the almost-profanity.

“Ah, but you were the one who both commandeered and successfully piloted the mark’s private helicopter so we could get away once topside.”

“We would never have made it to the helicopter in time if you hadn’t first sweet-talked a passing maid into giving us directions, then picked the lock to the rooftop door in an impressive and disturbingly short amount of time.”

“So you saved each other’s lives, it sounds like,” Marie interrupts diplomatically.

“Yeah,” smiles Arthur, “and not for the last time.”

_[I won’t trust anyone else with my life.]_

It’s not exactly how they met, but it’s a good story. It’s even true, but it was the second time they met.

\--

One time, while surveying architecture in Cambodia with Ariadne, Arthur points to a small, ramshackle café. Nothing distinguishes it from the tumble of hastily-constructed edifices surrounding it, nothing that would draw the eye or turn the feet.

“I met Eames right there, back when it was an underground nightclub. Not the kind of place I would ever take you to, but he fit in like he was born to it.”

_[He was a penniless gambler, a thief, a rogue.]_

“I was supposed to be on leave, but I’d just left my uniform behind for good. Too many senseless orders, too many senseless deaths. The military had taken everything I had, destroyed everything I was, in the name of building a better soldier.”

_[I had no heart left to give.]_

Ariadne’s not sure what to say. Arthur isn’t normally so generous with information, especially about himself. She stays quiet; Arthur doesn’t really seem to be talking to her, anyway.

“I’m not sure where I would be without him. Probably dead a long time ago, if I’m honest with myself. I didn’t care about anyone or anything, myself included.”

_[He stole it anyway. It’s better off with him.]_

Oddly enough, when Ariadne recreates that waterfront for their next extraction, there’s an addition to the café's sign. It looks a little like a Claddagh ring, a heart in a pair of hands. It’s out of place yet oddly fitting. 

\--

If anyone in dreamshare asks, they met on the Inception job. Eames was reported to be a flamboyant playboy. Arthur was called (behind his back, in well-earned terror) a soulless, ageless, ruthless mannequin.

_[The rumors weren’t true.]_

Eames turned out to be insufferable, flirtatious, hideously dressed, painted in garish tattoos, and wildly unpredictable. Arthur was condescending, rigid, and emotionless.

_[You were worse than I expected.]_

But everyone understands that the two are a package deal these days. You want one, you pay for the other. You hurt one, the other will kill you. Slowly. Painfully. Creatively.

_[It’s us against the world now.]_

No one else really understands. No one else needs to.

\--

Their love story is a fugue. No matter who tells it, or when, or how, the melody remains unchanged: one subject imitated in many voices and keys, sometimes major, sometimes minor, often inverted or in retrograde, transposed and transfigured, but always, always the same. No matter who tells it, or when, or how, the melody is the same: neither of them expected it, neither of them wanted it, but both would have it no other way.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by ~~that one fic I read recently but cannot for the life of me find again. It's the one where every time Arthur and Eames tell their meeting story it is a lie.~~ [Jonquil in December](http://archiveofourown.org/works/713743) by wldnst. (Thanks for tracking that down, flosculatory!)
> 
> I borrowed the idea of Arthur in a suit on the beach in Rio ~~. Sorry! It is a lovely mental picture! If you claim it (or can point me to it) I am happy to link it.~~ from the incomparable earlgreytea68's [Keep the Car Running](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2322008/chapters/5112950)
> 
> The title comes from a well known book of preludes and fugues, written by Johann Sebastian Bach.
> 
> Eames’ drugged complaint about Arthur giving his money “to the fuckin’ FBI or some shit like that” comes from Chapter 1 of my Shifter AU, Kitten. I was too fond of it not to reuse that idea.


End file.
